


The Golden Bough (Or What Harry Calls The Pile of Yellow Sticks)

by BambooTeaWhisk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternative Universe - Magic, Light Angst, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Oblivious Harry, Romance, Slow Burn, Top Draco Malfoy, Veela Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7478433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BambooTeaWhisk/pseuds/BambooTeaWhisk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Ancient Greek mythology, the Golden Bough signifies safe passage through trials and tribulations. Harry Potter considers Draco's courtship gift to be utterly ugly; a horrible piece to decorate his flat with.</p><p>Veela!Draco and Obtuse!Harry set after Hogwarts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Harry Potter fandom, this is my first foray into writing after a three year hiatus. This story is born from inspiration from another Veela!Draco story that I read recently. I haven't quite parsed out the ending yet, but I predict this to be between 20 and 40 thousand words.
> 
> Warnings: There will be warning for any mature/explicit scenes, and I know the territory of Veela fics may border dub/noncon. I don't plan on including any of those elements in my story - all characters will be of age and have consented prior to any activities! There may be elements of dubcon that I will include for the courtship purposes only.
> 
> Hermione Granger is biracial, Sirius Black has East Asian ancestry, Ginny Weasley is a flaming bisexual and in a relationship with genderqueer Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin is demiromantic and in a relationship with Sirius Black. Diversity is such an amazing thing, folks.
> 
> This story is inspired from me reading 'In His Nature' by create_serenity (Sivany) - this fic was the inspiration for me writing a Veela!Draco story, and I was inspired to write a character literally (and physically) pining for the other. So! If you're looking for a well-written and beautiful story about Veela-romance featuring Drarry, I'd definitely recommend that one.

It surprised no one when Harry Potter, savior of the Wizarding World, decided to become an Auror. After all, the proposition Kingsley Shacklebolt – recently minted Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – sent him after the Second Wizarding War would be irresistible to any commonsense witch or wizard. An all-expense paid Auror training and an upfront payment of over a thousand Galleons would’ve tempted anyone, not that Harry necessarily needed the money, but it was his do-good nature that eventually resulted in the Chosen One’s joining of the Magical Law Enforcement career path.

And what became of Draco Malfoy? After the Battle at Hogwarts, he and his family lived in the shadows of the Ministry for a final year, enduring spite and maltreatment while waiting for the ex-Death Eater’s trials to proceed. The legal system within the Wizarding World wasn’t nearly as slow as that of traditional Muggle courts, but the Malfoys were one of the final wizarding families to be put on trial, and escaped with a mere probation and community service. Nobody could’ve expected such a light punishment. 

Many speculated there were some inner workings in the Wizengamot that would permit for such a shallow reprimand, but as no proof could be definitively found, the Malfoys faded into obscurity as the Daily Prophet refocused its attention from the Second Wizarding War Trials to Muggleborn rights and repayment. Even Narcissa Malfoy dwindled from public view – the previously proud Pureblood witch would’ve sent a horde of complaints at having to fulfill magical community service, but post-war Narcissa completed her service without complaint. Call this character development or forced submission, the Malfoys lingered for another year in Britain, before vanishing completely after their probation had ceased.

Nobody had formed a definitive opinion on the Malfoy namesake – on one hand, the Malfoys were notorious followers of You Know Who prior to the Second War, but switched sides to ultimately save The Chosen One’s life, creating a debt to Wizarding society no witch nor wizard could aspire to fulfill. Their role, while high in the ranks of the Death Eaters, resulted in no deaths, which was mildly redeemable in the eyes of Wizarding society. Discussion on the Malfoy family was usually reserved for midnight debates among half-empty Firewhisky bottles, and not fit for a casual conversation, lest a family member of a victim was within the vicinity.

By the break of the second millennium, the Malfoy name had all but vanished from polite conversation. The Muggleborn Federation had recently been founded, and Harry Potter was rising in the ranks of the DMLE Auror ranks. In June of the year 2000, Draco Malfoy returned back to Britain and applied for a position at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, donning a large pair of feathery wings, symbolic of a Veela male.

oOo

_“What in the absolute hell?”_

Hermione Granger-Weasley, in a very unladylike manner, choked and spat out a mouthful of tea cookies. Grumbling, she swiped at her dress futility before glaring at Harry. “You heard me. Draco Malfoy has just applied for a position in the Magical Creatures department. Rumor has it he’s seeking to become a liaison between Veelas and wizarding kind.”

“But… he couldn’t have! I thought he was in Romania?” Harry stuttered, feeling even more wrong-footed. “Romania is quite the distance from Britain, Hermione. There’s no purpose for him to come back to London, especially for job seeking.”

“Romania, Harry, really? You’ve been keeping tabs on him, I see.”

Hermione was much too clever. But it’d take more to distract Harry from his focus.

“I wasn’t keeping tabs on him,” Harry said thoughtfully. “You know I sat precedent over his trial. Of course I knew where he’d gone off to.”

Ignoring Harry’s comments, Hermione plowed on.

“But this isn’t all the gossip plaguing our Department,” Hermione said. “There’s more to it.”

Harry was too busy being lost in his own thoughts. Hermione could tell she’d have to be much more direct if it were to impact Harry.

She leaned in mischievously, an impish spark glimmering in her eye. “Mandy Brocklehurt claims she saw a pair of wings on his back.”

“…So?”

“Wings, Harry.” Hermione sighed exasperatedly. “Didn’t you pay attention in Care of Magical Creatures at all?”

Obviously not. Harry was too obtuse at the time to have remembered such trivial details, and besides, the news of Draco Malfoy reemerging into high society prevented him from considering such insignificances. Be it wings, flippers, or tentacles, any mention of Draco’s name would have distracted him from discussions on extra appendages.  

“He’s a Veela, Harry. The first male Veela in nearly a century. And a magical one, at that. That’s bound to start controversy, notwithstanding his Malfoy reputation.”

Apparently, anything was possible. Harry sat gaping in his chair, feeling completely at a loss of words. Hermione, the more level-headed of the two, stood up, brushing her dress free from any stray crumbs. “I’ve got to be headed back; there’ll be plenty of paperwork to read over before tomorrow’s trial. I expect you’re to see him, Harry? After all, it’s been two years and I’m sure he’ll be interested in meeting the one who saved him from Azkaban.”

Looking back over her shoulder, Hermione paused in the doorframe. “I’m sure you know of the male Veela reputation, Harry. They’re in pursuit of a mate. The power bestowed on such a person is so incredibly immense, it’d make any witch or wizard clamoring to be claimed. Draco’s been somewhat of an overnight sensation. A Wizarding celebrity, if you will.”

And with that final quip, Hermione disappeared around the corner, leaving a spluttering Harry glancing about anxiously in his office.   


	2. Chapter 2

Harry was frustrated.

Beyond frustrated, actually. Borderline furious. Perhaps even angrier than that time Dean Thomas set a Kneazle on Harry after he borrowed-without-permission a pair of Y-fronts, but only on account of his not doing the laundry. It was a Monday, after all, and Mondays are notorious for hiding all clean underpants. How could he have known Dean would’ve been partial to the tap dancing pickles design? Magically in motion, of course. They were quite roomy, Harry had to admit, and far superior to his garden variety briefs.

But that was beside the point. A more relevant issue was at hand, one that was eleven letters long and apparently no longer human anymore. Draco Malfoy sat at the top of Harry’s Biggest List of Concerns, well above the anxieties of _“Are there spiders in my wellies?”_ and _“Did Fred and George break another restricted code on explosions?”_ – though the combined stress of the second and third most worries could hardly amount to the induced stress deriving from a newly minted Veela.

A Veela male, in fact, a species so uncommon in its existence that the last recorded male Veela in Wizarding history deceased over half a century prior. Quite an unfortunate ending to its life, Harry noted, recalling on the histories of Veela-kind from Professor Binn’s lectures. St. Mungo’s was apparently ill-prepared to deal with a Veela experiencing Mate Loss, and the widowed Veela expired with a gory, ghastly passing. The Daily Prophet claimed the Veela had accidentally murdered his own Mate after unfortunately ingesting a smell-identifying convolution potion, and mistaking the female in his bed to be a stranger. **‘Tragedy Strikes the Veela Colony with the Death of the Last Male Heir to the Veelic Magic'** – these headlines were plastered all across the nation, with all semblances of privacy violated. Harry, being familiar with the vulnerability associated with existing within the public eye, felt sympathetic towards the unnamed Veela who must’ve suffered in his final few weeks. Being a possessor of such wild power and without any ability to channel it out, the Veela quite literally drove himself mad into his grave.

But the previous male Veela was a non-wizarding creature, a being who possessed and manipulated wild magic as opposed to the refined spellwork of the modern human wizard or witch. How would this situation differ from Draco Malfoy, previous Potions extraordinaire and promising young wizard? Not that Draco could’ve possibly been permitted to keep his wand, but this was irrelevant in comparison to the power he – and his chosen Mate – could harness from the ancient Veela origins. But could Harry possibly trust Draco Malfoy possessing the raw magic of Veelakind? This was like trusting an Acromantula with pet-sitting a Blast Ended Skrewt and expecting both participants to emerge unscathed. It wasn’t that Harry necessarily mistrusted Draco, but old grudges are hard to eradicate, especially when the subject of one’s grudge nearly used an Unforgivable Curse with Harry as a test subject.

“And I expected all of the dramatics to be over when I left Hogwarts,” Harry grumbled, hoisting himself out from behind his desk. “Or maybe when I killed Voldemort, perhaps? You’d think I’ve lived enough trauma to fuel several anxiety-filled lives.”

He tucked his robes firmly around himself, and stomped irritably out of his office, flicking his wand carelessly and magically locking the door. _Constant vigilance,_ Harry mused, _one couldn’t be too careless nowadays. What with the reincarnate of a Veela god gracing our motherland, a Basilisk may be expected to turn up tomorrow. What a lovely surprise it could be, I shall invite to tea._

Harry left the Department of Magical Law and Enforcement, heading directly for the Atrium. He hoped that Reception did their job for once and actually obtained contact information from Draco Malfoy. Not that he could be particularly optimistic, given the circumstances that Voldermort and his Death Eater entourage managed to break into the Ministry on several occasions, without ever being interrogated at Reception.

“Honestly, you’d think half the precautions here would’ve been more effective, provided we actually used security,” Harry muttered, drawing his robes in awkwardly amidst stares and whispers. Despite two years of experience working for the Ministry, he was still considered a Wizarding celebrity; notwithstanding his clammy pallor and awkward demeanor, Harry managed to cause dramatics wherever he went. “Imagine the decrease in accidental detonations…”

He trailed off awkwardly when he noticed a large gathering clamoring in the center of the Atrium. Such an occurrence wasn’t exceptionally uncommon, what with the protests on Muggleborn Retributions. Harry himself participated in a few demonstrations and speeches towards the cause, always accompanied with his godfathers and the Weasley-Grangers. But for a crowd to be present on a late Friday evening peaked his interest. Even more, Harry sensed fewer eyes on him than usual, with the bulk of the mass’s attention focused on a single being in the center.

Harry was briefly engrossed in the crowd’s distraction, until he remembered the original motivator of his mission – _to save the Wizarding World from imminent danger, once again,_ he though wryly, _but from an overgrown bird throwing a tantrum as opposed to Lord Voldemort._

“I’d like to request a copy of all visitors from this afternoon, please,” Harry said to the bored-looking receptionist reading Witch Weekly. “It’s on official business, so I’d appreciate the haste.”

“Aam sorry hen but we ur gonnae need a nam fur th’ request. An’ photae ID tay.” The witch looked at Harry expectantly, as if his face wasn’t plastered across the Daily Prophet and all credible news sources on a weekly basis.

“Harry Potter. It’s Harry Potter,” he mumbled, digging in the deep depths of his robes for his Ministry-issued identification card. “Hang on, I’ve stashed it in the wrong pocket again…”

Clenching a used tissue in his left hand, Harry emerged from the inky blackness of his Auror robe, ID card firmly clutched to his chest. Noticing a scenery change, Harry blinked several times.

Where previously sat a dumpy middle-aged witch now existed a large expanse of what appeared to be creamy drapery. He blinked in confusion. A small gust of wind blew through the Atrium, causing the drapery to slightly shudder, sending rainbow colored glimmers scattering across its surface. Harry was absolutely transfixed. He briefly noticed the multi-faceted texture of what seemed to be feathers, before being confronted with a pair of stormy gray eyes.

Just his luck.

Draco Malfoy’s pointed chin swam into view, noticeably slimmer than Harry’s last observation during the Trials. Then his nose, slick blonde hair, and finally lips appeared – lips that were forming words that Harry wasn’t comprehending. What was he saying? He couldn’t be bothered to focus on Draco’s speech, much less the fact Draco Malfoy, newly minted Veela, had materialized before him as if summoned.

“…Draco Lucius Malfoy, sole male heir to the Veela nation and possessor of the Veelic Magic, claim you, Harry James Potter, to be my destined Mate.”

Audible gasps rang out in the Atrium.

"…In accordance with ancient tradition, I present to you the first symbol of my undying devotion and passion, the Golden Bough, fetched from the branches of the solitary Cumae tree in the Veelic nation. Such possession is unrivaled in its existence…”

Harry felt faint. He couldn’t follow the words flooding from Draco’s lips. Mate? Golden Bough?

“Do you, Harry James Potter, accept the claim placed upon your being?”

A bundle of golden branches swam into view, framed with delicate fingers. Harry was distracted by the subtle discernable veins in Draco’s wrist, before snapping his eyes back up to meet Draco directly.

Grey eyes were filled with deep emotions of insecurity and vulnerability. The word ‘yes’ floated to the tip of Harry’s tongue, and he briefly considered humoring his impulse, before being shocked back into reality. He couldn’t afford to be this careless.

He was a twenty year old Auror working for the Ministry, for Merlin’s sake. His job requirement was only the acceptance of death. There was no possibility of a future with any individual, let alone a Mate relationship with a Veela, even much less one with Draco Malfoy. It would be irrational to consider acceptance.

“I most certainly do not.”

Wrenching his eyes away from Draco’s, Harry spun on his heel violently and strode purposely out of the Atrium. He wished he could screech like a preteen witch, chuck his used tissue towards Draco Malfoy’s overly feathered head, knock the pile of yellow twigs out of his hands, and sprint out of the Atrium shrieking madly. Unfortunately for him, he possessed neither the age nor maturity of a young witch, and was resigned to retain what little dignity remained and leave with good grace.

Harry could feel cold eyes on his back as he departed, but he paid them no attention. He’d pretend he’d never seen the look of desperation and grief in Draco Malfoy’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I included the note on diversity mostly because I'm interested in writing diverse characters, and it's sometimes difficult to convey one's diversity through literature when not all aspects of their character is present in the text. I encourage you, dear reader, to not focus too much on their identities and consider an alternative universe that is less... hetero- and cisnormative, and one that retains a wide range of identities and orientations!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is usage of homophobic language, and a severe abuse of the British slang dictionary. (Not British myself, so I had to make do with the internet. Apologies for butchering the language!) Also, there is a slight violent interaction towards the end, but I don't think the rating is above PG-13.

_“Draco Malfoy did what?”_

“You heard me,” Harry grumbled, clinking the ice together in his glass. “He tried to _claim_ me.”

Ron Weasley-Granger openly gaped at Harry, lips twitching unattractively. Dean Thomas – bless his heart – leaned across the table to gently tap Ron’s mouth closed. “You’ll be catching pixies in that jar of yours, mate.”

“B-but! He… couldn’t have!” Ron spluttered wildly, suddenly regaining the ability of speech. His frantic gesticulations caused the liquid in his glass to slosh about violently. When words failed to convey his emotions, Weasley-Granger compensated with overly-large, flailing body limbs. “Stupid git, thinking he _owns_ you or something. Oi, what about Ginny? Making a move on a taken bloke is awfully bollocksy, but that’s my sister he’s slighting. The arsehole must be off his rocker-“

Returning from the bar, Seamus Finnegan slid another glass across the table to Harry whilst Ron was finishing his tirade. “Long day, Harry? S’not like you to polish off a firewhiskey in less than an hour. Somethin’ bothering you?”

Harry sighed deeply and braced himself to recount that evening’s events for the umpteenth time, but Ron beat him to the punch. “Draco Malfoy claimed Harry as his mate. _What a slag!_ He gets first pick of all the witches of Britain and he chooses the one person that everyone knows to be taken. Yunno, he’s probably doing it to spite Ginny-”

Dean Thomas muttered under his breath, “At least he wasn’t flirting with the bartender, and every other bloke in the vicinity...”

Seamus flushed deep red. “Oi, if you have a comment about me being bent, why don’t you just say it straight? At least I don’t wank off to the witches on the cover of Witch Weekly every morning.”

“Hermione was on last month’s edition, Dean, you bloody idiot!” Ron’s face matched the color of Seamus’ flush, a great accomplishment given Seamus’ uncanny resemblance to a ripened tomato.

“I did no such thing! But he’s got every edition of the Warwick Rowers’ calendar stashed underneath his bed-“

“That’s private information, Thomas!” Seamus roared. An awkward silence settled across the bar’s other patrons. Harry merely sighed, electing instead to drink his next firewhiskey with more vigor. “What’s it matter to you? Jealous?”

Dean’s quiet _‘yes’_ was muffled by Ron’s interjection.

“He’s just pissed, leave off Seamus-“

“That’s it!” Harry shouted loudly, startling the bickering lads into shocked silence.

A witch in the surrounding crowd took the liberty of gently shoving Seamus into Dean.

“Groping me now, Finnegan? Why don’t you just spread your legs for everyone, you nancy-boy?”

Seamus let out a roar and lunged for Dean’s throat. Being thoroughly pissed, he managed to slop an entire mugful of Butterbeer down the front of Ron’s jumper while leaning across the table. Tempers flared in the dingy underground Wizarding bar, and a scuffle quickly broke out. Punches were thrown as lads emboldened with alcohol’s lure resorted to Muggle violence in order to express their frustration. Amidst the chaos, Harry Potter sat unaffected, silently nursing his third glass of firewhiskey. He’d sat through plenty of his friends’ brawls and chose to instead finish his drink before they were banned. Considering the extensive list of bars the lads were barred from, it would take nothing short of a miracle – and a strongly worded Seeking spell – to find their next alcoholic adventure.

Nevertheless, inspiration had struck him with Finnegan’s mention of jealousy. Perhaps Harry was only jealous of Malfoy. This would explain the heavy feeling in his chest that had been bothering him since earlier that evening… But jealous for what reason? He couldn’t explain the cause quite yet.

“Oi, no magic!” a voice yelped as flashes of light flickered from beneath the wriggling mass of pounded flesh.

The witch from the table over leaned towards Harry. “In the words of acclaimed siren Taylor Swift… _Let the sparks fly_.”

“Sailor who? And what siren?”

The witch didn’t get a chance to respond before the dust settled. A low gasp rang out from the crowd of witches and wizards spectating the brawl. Ron Weasley emerged from beneath the table, rubbing a swelling spot on his forehead, and blinked blearily up at the two boys standing before him. His lips fell open in shock.

Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan were kissing frantically, thoroughly attached at the lips and grasping at each other desperately. While Harry was watching them, he noticed Seamus’ tongue slipping into Dean’s mouth, causing another layer of slick sounds to emit from the duo. Harry felt quite faint.

“Blimey Dean, I didn’t know you swung that way!” Ron’s mouth nearly hit the floor for the second time that day.

A loud, wet smack rung out as the two boys separated. Dean sighed, and leaned his forehead against Seamus’. “I’m not… bent, you know? You’re just… I couldn’t stand you flirting with him.”

“Shh, me mam says you don’t have to label everything.” The crinkles around Seamus’ eyes were so enticing, Dean felt the need to kiss them. And after kissing both eyelids, he proceeded to leave wet marks all over the boy’s face, including a hearty smack on his lips again.

Ron gagged, and turned around. Harry, being the Most Acclaimed Third Wheel™, felt the tips of his ears burn in embarrassment.

Quite belatedly, the bartender roared, “No fighting!”

Three minutes later, the quartet found themselves being violently ejected from the bar. Loud jeers and laughter sounded from within, and Harry thought forlornly of his half-finished firewhiskey.

“Well, that was quite the adventure, fellows. Hardly lives up to the expectations of our Hogwarts standards, but would’ve received an Acceptable, at the very least.” Harry quipped, brushing the grime off his robes. “I’d say that set a record for quickest turnover. Next time, I’d appreciate it if I could use the loo before we’re kicked out.”

At least Dean and Ron had the fortitude to look mildly mollified. “Er, sorry about that Harry.”

“S’late, I’ll be heading to my flat, then,” Seamus’ eyes slid slowly over Dean’s figure. “Dean, you’re welcome to accompany me for some… ah, post-drinking discussions.”

“Might be a good idea, as we have much to discuss… but perhaps we’ll leave the discussing to another time,” Dean slurred, clutching tightly to Seamus’ robes to remain upright. The poor lad’s alcohol tolerance was that of a fairy and he could hardly see straight. Irish was in Seamus’ blood, and his tolerance was much greater, but the lad also chose to down several shots given liberally by the bartender. They were both quite irreversibly drunk.

Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan winked mischievously as they Apparated away, fingers interlocked tightly. Ron stared after them, still slightly shell-shocked from the sudden display of physical intimacy.

“Blimely, seems like everyone is bent nowadays.” he said, voice hoarse.

“So it seems.” Harry responded. He had much to consider – besides his godfathers, there were very few wizards and witches entering in homosexual relationships. Remus’ and Sirius’ bond proved their relationship strength to surpass even the most enduring of heterosexual marriages, yet society still scorned and shamed them for their alternative lifestyle. It was quite ironic that Remus’ lycanthropy proved to be lesser of an issue than his participation in a gay relationship, but then again, society’s rules were quite silly, Harry thought.

Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan were not the unexpected couple, Harry thought. Considering their uncanny friendship throughout their Hogwarts years, he speculated there was underlying romantic tension between the two for the past few months. Harry was surprised that the tension erupted in such undesirable conditions – a dark, dingy bar on a Friday evening – but comparing it to Malfoy’s proposal of earlier, a clear winner was evident.

“-planning on Apparating, Harry?” Ron said, clearly oblivious to the mental crisis occurring inside Harry’s mind.

“Apparating?” Harry snorted. “Given my current state, I don’t think spliching is a desirable outcome, mate.”

“Your choice, Harry,” shrugged Ron, before mentally preparing himself to Apparate back to the Weasley-Granger household. “Monday, then?”

The loud _‘pop!’_ suddenly disturbed the nighttime silence. Dark critters eyed Harry restlessly, before turning a shut eye to the heavily inebriated male. Walking home seemed suddenly to be a tempting idea, yet not ten minutes into the activity passed before Harry was exhausted. _Stumbling around in the dark is hardly an activity worth repeating_ , Harry thought, as he puffed moist air in his exhaustion. _Who thought this to be a good idea? Not I, for sure._

This was even worse than the time when Dobby over-spiked Harry’s pumpkin juice in the Room of Requirement and he had to stumble back to the Common Room from the 5th floor. The humiliation of being found half-undressed by Draco Malfoy at 2AM still burned fresh in his mind…

But that was beside the point. Hogwarts was over, anyway. He’d graduated, left the castle, and never looked back. Choosing to dedicate his life to eradicating the Dark Arts was such an obvious choice. Risking his life daily to serve the ultimate good was only a small annoyance, but Harry tended to shrug off most risky behaviors.

Again, the crawling sensation of eyes on his back sent skitters running up his spine. But this feeling was more than uneasy; Harry felt as if predatory eyes were pinning his frame to the brick wall.

“Who’s there?” he slurred, rubbing at his eyes in a hopeless attempt to see better in the darkness. Harry removed his glasses and polished them off on his robes, putting them on in time to see a fist swing out of the gloom and connect painfully with his face.

 _One punch. That’s all it took to topple the great Harry Potter,_ he thought, mind still floating about five and three quarters feet off the ground. _Cringing on the ground, such humil-_

“-iation to see the Chosen One looking so pathetic,” a voice spat. Harry smelt alcohol off of the man’s breath, but considering how much firewhiskey he himself had consumed, the alcohol could have been emitting from his own robes. Robes which were currently billowing around his body, which had flopped limply to the concrete after the impact.

_Huh. It wasn’t his conscience speaking to him. That was confusing._

The voice continued spiting vitriol. “You fucking tosser, you deserved that.”

The blinding pain returned. Harry cringed away from the source, hand scrambling frantically for his wand. How stupid he was to get so pissed drunk, and think himself invincible to walk alone through one of London’s seediest neighborhoods.

Gripping his wand firmly by the handle, he brought it up to mutter the Jelly Legs Jinx, but had it kicked out of his hand. As the skitters of his wand knocking off the cobblestones faded into the darkness, Harry felt any dregs of hope slowly seeping out of his body. He howled in agony as his other hand was crushed beneath a heavy boot.

The shadows seemed to be shifting around angrily, as if space itself was contracting to squeeze an entity into existence.

“-that’s for me pap, who’s in Azkaban because of you!” The man spat angrily on Harry’s robes, and proceeded to grind his shoe into Harry’s skull. Blood spurted from various lacerations across his body, and he felt his glasses snap underneath his shoulder. The shards dug into his skin, twisting viciously in the vulnerable flesh. The pain was becoming quite unbearable…

Suddenly, a large shape burst through the shadows and surrounded the shrieking gangster, dragging him back into the darkness. There was another violent tussle just outside of Harry’s periphery vision, but his mind was too convoluted to focus on any particular event. He laid limply on the concrete trying to focus on his breathing and taking note of every injury received.

Seconds later – it felt like hours to Harry -, a white shape emerged from the darkness. Draco Malfoy slicked his mussed hair back into perfection, tucking his wings into his sides. He strode over to Harry’s side and looked down at the man who, despite his many lesions and grimy appearance, seemed so brilliant and perfect. Fucking Veela instincts.

“Silly git, you could’ve been killed,” he muttered, bending down to pick up Harry. “Blimey, you’re heavy, Potter.”

 _“I’m knackered, Malfoy, leave off”_ were the last words Harry remembered uttering before black darkness claimed his vision.


	4. Chapter 4

_White._

All he remembered seeing was white. Surrounding him - protecting him - but from what? From whom?

Harry opened his eyes. Above and around him, a canopy sprawled lavishly across his field of vision, blocking out the majority of the room’s decorations from view. A small sliver in the curtains let a beam of sunlight filter through, bathing the narrow visible strip of room in warm light. Ironically, the surrounding decorations were also in various shades of white, cream, and ivory – colors that appeared to be mocking him and his peculiarly absent memory. Where was he? And how did he get here?

He realized that he didn’t have the answers to those questions. Panic began to well inside him, sending waves of adrenaline throughout his body. It was an instinctual response, well-honed from his Auror training days, and he _knew_ that - but they only served to further provoke Harry, causing him to break out in a cold sweat. Harry reached out to claw back the canopies, but found his arm to be extraordinarily heavy, as if physically pinned down by his side. Frantically wiggling his other arm, then his legs, Harry struggled futility before realizing he had no physical autonomy. He was _trapped_.

Assuming the wandwork restraining his body to the bed must be a Full Body-Bind Curse, Harry thought quickly to summon his wand to perform the countercurse. Wandless magic was not of Harry’s forte, but in cases of extreme danger, he was inclined to perform to his absolute best. But nothing happened. He internally frowned in aggravation, and thought ‘ _Accio Wand!’_ again harder. The second time did the trick; his wand shot out from its resting place next to his pillow, painfully thwacking Harry across the face with a pointed end. Unfortunately for Harry’s protruding nose, it served as an over-large target for abuse.

“Ouch, damnit!” he shouted, eyes watering painfully.

Wait. Speech. _He could talk!_ If he was capable of speaking, then surely this was not the Full Body-Bind Curse, no? Looking downwards, Harry first noted his body draped in a thick blanket, firmly pressed to prevent him from wiggling about. The supposed curse– really a clever extra-tight sheet tucking spell – was nothing but a figment of Harry’s imagination. He suddenly felt quite stupid; how could he possibly mistake the Full Body-Bind Curse for a house elf’s dutiful housekeeping duties? Never mind, he had more pressing issues at hand, such as escaping from his 50% cotton and 50% silk prison. He wiggled about, taking account of the various aches and pains in his body. A sudden twinge in his side caused him to shout out again painfully.

“Bollocks!” he croaked. Of course he’d wake up in an unfamiliar bed, firmly immobilized by his sheets. What to expect next? A giant bed monster that would swallow Harry entirely, pressed sheets and dreamy canopy included? Considering his dismal luck, it seemed the most likely scenario. But could his luck be truly so bad? He was in a comfortable bed and was surprisingly composed given the potentially-hostage situation. As his anxiety subsided, Harry was able to focus his mind back on the events of the night prior…

Flashes of last night began filtering back into view. Harry vaguely remembered watching Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan grope each other violently in a dark setting, but all memories after that remained suspiciously vague. He frowned in confusion as a soft voice interrupted the silence.

“You’ll hurt yourself looking that cross-eyed,” the quiet voice murmured. “Or your eyes will be stuck together permanently.”

Harry snapped his head to the side so violently, he felt several joints crack in his neck. Bugger. This was a sign of getting older, wasn’t it? All these aches and pains; they’re to be expected. He must’ve slept wrong last night, that’s why his side was hurting so much.

“Water, Potter? You look fairly parched.”

Right, he was quite thirsty. Also, Harry vaguely noticed a faint pounding at his temples.

A glass was thrust in front of his face, and he slurped at it messily. Malfoy’s face, an ever perfect – and slightly blurry - mask of calm collectedness, didn’t even flicker.

“Thanks.” Harry felt suddenly quite awkward. Here he was, grimy from the night before, and groggily waking up in Malfoy’s bed. Hardly twenty-four hours has passed since him rejecting Malfoy’s claim, and he suddenly felt guilty at his sudden departure during their last interaction.

He glanced over curiously at his companion, only to find Malfoy’s face shrouded behind a curtain of blonde tresses. Malfoy was looking down at his clasped hands, appearing hesitant to speak. Seeming to have made up his mind, he leaned forwards and locked eyes with Harry.

“You could’ve died out there, Potter.” Malfoy’s grey eyes were piercing. They seemed to peer into Harry’s psyche, and he could’ve sworn the faintest twinges of Legilimency persuading him to speak freely. Harry felt so incredibly vulnerable; he broke eye contact first.

“Yeah, so?” Harry shrugged, suddenly preoccupied with a stray thread on his pillow. He picked at it nervously and refused to make direct eye contact. “It’s not like that happens all the time.”

Draco looked like he wanted to strangle someone. “How could you treat your life so carelessly, Potter?! You don’t even know the culprit-“

“I don’t have to know, Malfoy,” Harry said tiredly. He reached over to the bedside table and put his glasses on, suddenly snapping the slightly fuzzy focus of the room into crystal clear view. Being the target of a violent crime wasn’t foreign to Harry – hello Voldemort! – and incidents post the 2nd Wizarding War were sparse and far in-between. “I was inebriated, and it won’t happen again. ‘Sides, if I’m not in Mungo’s, it couldn’t have been all that bad.”

“Four Vulnera Sanenturs, one bone-regrowth potion, and at least two Tergeos to siphon all the blood off our antique bedsprea-“

Harry suddenly found himself rather disinterred in the complaints coming from the other, and more engrossed on the shape of his lips as they formed words. A stronger sense of peace floated across his being. It was a curious feeling, one that seemed artificially constructed, but it soothed the tension building in his head. He couldn’t quite place where the feeling was originating from. Nevertheless, the calming mood was welcomed gratefully.

“-ou could’ve died, and I’d be faulted for murdering The Chosen One. And after all that, you’re still looking a bit peaky. Pity the spells didn’t fix your complexion, Potter.” Draco spat.

The insult to his physical appearance had Harry snapping back into reality. Really, who was Malfoy to talk? As Harry narrowed his eyes, he noticed pale circles underlining Malfoy’s eyes, accentuating the tired creases on his forehead. Even his hair appeared to be lying limply, as if suddenly confronted with the burden of its weight, despite its gravity-defying pompadour of yesterday. Harry wondered about these physical differences – had he not been directly confronted by Draco last night, he wouldn’t have noticed such slight changes. He wondered whether the other had slept at all last night, or whether he spent the entire time tending to Harry’s injuries. Surely this wasn’t concern of Malfoy’s wellbeing, but merely an observation of the other, right? Blame his Auror tendencies for being so perceptive.

Harry bristled. “You don’t look so great yourself, Malfoy.”

“That’s because I was up all night tending to you.”

He wasn’t about to let Draco guilt-trip him into feeling ashamed. Harry retrieved his arm from beneath the billows of blankets, motioning to climb out of the bed.

Draco seemed surprised at Harry’s initiative and barked, “Wait. Stay for breakfast, Potter. Don’t disappoint Tilly; she’s set out a breakfast for two.”

“I’ve got to feed my Crup, Malfoy. Thanks for the offer, but I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint.” With this, Harry made to stand up, but almost collapsed as his shaky legs refused to cooperate.

Draco shot out an arm to steady Harry. Doing so angled Draco’s body such that his wings were now visible – wings that conveniently reminded Harry of the other’s Veela status, and the humiliation of yesterday. Scowling, Harry yanked his arm back from the other, but not before feeling a slight current of electricity running through his body.

“What was that, Malfoy?” he spat out, discerning how the other recoiled slightly from Harry’s hostility. Malfoy’s wings gently fluttered anxiously before he responded.

“I… don’t know.” His voice was wretched, and Harry almost felt pity for him. Almost.

“Well make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Harry wrenched himself to his feet again, and limped out of the mysterious room, hand clutched to his side uncomfortably. Draco made no move to follow him, and instead sat limply on the bed, face shielded from Harry’s gaze.

 Outside the bedroom, Harry realized very quickly that he was absolutely lost. Fantastic. A whole parade of different doors faced the young hero, teasing tantalizingly with Pureblood mysteries behind the wood panels. Harry blew out his hair in frustration; finding a fireplace to Floo could take hours, and he was sure the Malfoys would’ve ensured the grounds to be warded against Apparitions.

Yanking a random door open, Harry briefly noted a washroom, ajar curtain revealing a young house elf scrubbing at her back with a bath sponge, pastel pink shower cap anchored firmly on her head. A shriek rang out, but not before Harry was splashed with a large pan of soapy water. He backed out of the room, spitting soap out from his mouth.

He was now soaked, in pain, and even more disoriented. Considering his fair share of morning-afters, this definitely did not place in his top ten list. Harry sighed and wrenched open another door, wand at the ready.

The second door led to a darkened passage, and he felt goosebumps rising up his arm. The darkness seemed impenetrable from the outside, almost even solidified. A fingertap to the substance revealed a jellied barrier from within, but Harry could only vaguely discern a large scattering about the floor of the room, before the door snapped shut in his face.

“Rude,” he said, rubbing his suddenly shortened nose. Harry spun about wildly and judged another door at random. Just his luck – it proved to be the door to the sitting room, decorated lavishly in traditional Malfoy style. Amidst all the decorous furniture, a large jar – more like an Eastern Elven handcrafted vase, Harry thought - of Floo Powder sat above the mantleplace. He strode over, scattered the poisonous green powder into the fireplace, shouted _‘The Flats at Battle Lane_!’, and disappeared from the Malfoy Manor.

 

oOo

 

“Mate, do you mind if I visited?”

Dean Thomas’ face gazed expectantly up from the fireplace, startling Harry out of his doze. He flailed about frantically before falling with a loud thud onto the carpet. Determinedly ignoring a small snigger, Harry straightened his glasses and brushed off his robes before wrenching himself upright for the second time that day.

“’Course not. Mind the ashes, Dean,” he called.

One bright poison green flash later – and no less than a tablespoon of ashes deposited on his carpet -, Dean Thomas sat uncomfortably on Harry’s couch.

“About yesterday,” he started, but was interrupted by Harry.

“I’ve got no expertise in the area, Dean; you’re better off asking Remus or Sirius on the matter,” Harry waved off Dean’s speech with flaming cheeks. He wasn’t quite experienced on dealing with homosexual relationships, and figured directing the other to a more credible individual would be of better use.

“Hear me out, Harry, please– I just… I don’t know what to feel about Seamus.” Dean looked quite worried, and Harry felt almost sympathetic for his friend, before remembering the foreplay he was forced to witness yesterday. Definitely not sympathetic anymore. “I care for him, Harry, I really do. But I don’t know if I love him, or if I even like boys, and this is all so very confusing! I’m not bent, Harry - or at least I thought I wasn’t – but I don’t know anymore. I never felt this way before, and what if he doesn’t like me bac-“

“Dean. Easy there.” Harry had the foresight to head his friend off before he talked himself into a panic attack. “Answer me – do you care for him? More than a friend?”

“I don’t know what that means, Harry.” Dean’s confused face showed he truly didn’t understand.

Harry sighed reluctantly and tried to explain his feelings about Ginny. “Mate, it’s hard to explain – you just feel a certain way when they’re around, it’s a sense of comfort and security. You care about them, you feel the need to make sure they’re alright and cared for…”

He trailed off. Suspiciously, his mind was turning back to Malfoy again. Shaking his head, he conjured up another image of his red-haired girlfriend before continuing.

“You become happier with them, and without them, you feel helpless.”

As he was explaining the feelings of love, red hair and hazel eyes faded from his mind, being replaced by the all-consuming color of white.


	5. Chapter 5

On Sundays, Harry always fire-called Ginny. It had been a tradition when he relocated to Morocco during the Auror Raids of 1998, but had developed into a habit the two sustained post-reunion. Recently however, Ginny and her team were stationed on the British Isles to _‘improve flight mechanics when experiencing turbulence and randomized chaos,’_ or to achieve whatever mission Gwenog Jones had set her mind to. Harry understood how dedicated Jones was to the Holyhead Harpies and the art of Quidditch, but nerves began to frizzle as the stress mounted with the looming Quidditch World Cup.

Finals for the British representatives had yet to be selected, but many speculated the Holyhead Harpies stood a fighting’s chance against the previous Cup’s predecessors, the Falmouth Falcons. Thus, Jones deemed the need for extensive training hours on an isolated island where few were privileged to visit, Harry included. As a matter of fact, only two Aurors at any time were stationed on the island throughout their training practices, a number Harry insisted to the Minister on doubling for Ginny’s sake.

Not that there were any immediate threats to be concerned about, but Ginny Weasley was a high profile Quidditch chaser currently in a relationship with the Chosen One, Harry Potter, and such a prolific background warranted attention from quite a few underground Wizarding gangs. Better to be safe than sorry, and look around the corner twice before proceeding-

“BANG!” A thud sounded as Harry abruptly smacked his forehead against the top of Ginny’s mantle. Bugger. This was embarrassing – and unfortunately occurred quite regularly. He’d have to gauge the depth of her fireplace better, a thought he pondered every time the injury occurred, but never once was addressed.

 Adding insult to injury, Ginny snickered at him before leaning down to smile warmly at her boyfriend.

“How’s it goin’, Ginn?” Harry winced, eyes watering in pain. “Holding up alright on those wind-battered islands?”

“Never better, Harry.” Ginny looked pleased to see him; despite Harry’s blurred vision, he noticed the good mood she seemed to be in. She smiled again, the vibrancy of her green uniform emphasizing the green flecks in her eyes. _Absolutely gorgeous,_ Harry thought, s _he hasn’t looked this happy since she left._

“You alright yourself?”

“Fantastic.” Harry fibbed, innocently gazing up at his girlfriend. But she was perceptive, almost too perceptive for her own good, and Ginny’s eyes narrowed as she inspected her boyfriend closely. He couldn’t hold this lie up for too long; the last time Harry told a fib, he broke down after thirty minutes of interrogation and admitted the truth _(“Seamus kissed me, but it was only on the cheek, Ginn, and he was drunk,”)._ But this was clearly a more intrusive situation and he refused to let anything interfere with his relationship with Ginny – not even a mate-thirsty, ex-rival of a Veela.

“Really,” Ginny drawled, green eyes flashing. “Ministry’s running smoothly, then?”

Bingo. She’d found his weakness much quicker than expected. Harry inhaled slowly in an attempt to stall before answering, but realized his proximity to the coals shimmering inches below his face one second too late – particulates were sent flying around the fireplace, scattering ash on Ginny’s new carpet and causing sneezes to wrack the poor Auror’s body. Harry certainly did not expect to buy time via choking on fire ash. He coughed frantically in an attempt to clear his throat, and missed the flash of bubblegum pink hair that signified a new visitor.

“Wotcher, Harry!” Perfect. An addition to his audience. Harry awkwardly cleared his throat, still feeling the last trickles of ash dampening his lungs, but attempted to speak anyway. “ ‘lo, Tonks.”

“You don’t look so great, Harry, everything alright?”

“Peachy, everything’s perfect.” He offered a weak grin to Tonks, hoping the oblivious Auror wouldn’t notice anything different. Fortunately, Tonks didn’t notice his forced expression.

“Great,” Tonks said, unconscious to the tension simmering between Ginny and Harry. “I’ve been well myself; just arrived today. I’ll be replacing McAffy as he’s developed this overgrown foot fungus, probably from all the rain over here. Anyway, the isles have this awful, dreary weather, but it isn’t anything I can’t handle–“

 When it was obvious his redhead girlfriend was trying to catch his eye, Harry began examining his surroundings in fine detail, avoiding eye contact at all costs. He felt so uncomfortable, so awkward with Tonks prattling on and on, but ‘ _Draco Malfoy and his vile Veela claim’_ was not a subject Harry would prefer to discuss with a third person present. He’d rather suffer through an in depth description of the weather as opposed to the topic Ginny wanted to address.

“And everything’s been running smoothly, no sign of infiltration, ‘course me and Bones have been keeping a fine eye on things,” Tonks continued as Ginny raised an eyebrow in Harry’s direction. Her expression was growing increasingly severe, resembling Professor McGonagall’s scowl when confronted at midnight in a banned corridor.

Harry began to sweat. Fire calls had always been uncomfortable, yet this one just seemed even worse than others before.

“– and just last week, we apprehended a nutter who thought he had full access passes to all their season’s practices!” Tonks prattled. “Did I get a chance to tell you about – wait, it’s half past four? I’ve got a meeting with Bones real quick. Just be a little bit of business we’ll take care of, then I’ll be right back, Ginn.”

And with that, the bubblegum pink hair vanished, leaving a curtain of shimmering red staining the darkness. Ginny’s expression was temporarily alleviated with a warm smile in Tonk’s direction, before dropping into a stressed grimace.

“Tonks’ great, aren’t they?” Harry started, but was interrupted by Ginny.

“I’m thinking of joining the Ministry.”

A definite double-take was necessary. Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion; he couldn’t understand why Ginny would want to give up such a coveted Quidditch position so soon to the trials, hadn’t she been working with the team for months on strategies? And with rumors of Gwenog Jones’ retirement after the World Cup, Ginny was a high contender for the next Holyhead Harpies Captaincy –

“I’m tired, Harry. I can’t do this anymore.” Ginny looked as if she wanted to cry.

“But Quidditch is everything to you,” Harry stammered. “You want to give it up? Why?”

“If giving it up means more time together, I’ll pay the price.” Ginny whispered, mouth pursued in a straight line. “I looked into positions at the Department of Magical Games & Sports. I’ll still be in the Quidditch division, though not directly on the field – it’s a compromise I’m willing to make, and I’ll be able to see you, Mum, and the rest of the family much more often, wouldn’t that be nice?”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with Draco Malfoy, does it?” Harry questioned, deciding to directly address the subject himself. “I’ve rejected him, and everyone knows we’re together. You don’t have to worry about him, Ginn.”

“No Harry, but I’d feel more comfortable if we were closer together, and we can even look into buying that house with a white picket fence we were thinking of, what do you think?” Ginny said, but her expression seemed more disheartened than hopeful.

“But-“ Harry was cut off for the second time today.

“Don’t you want to spend more time with me?”

He realized this was a delicate situation, one in which Harry needed to tread carefully. One mistake, and Ginny would employ the silent treatment again. The last time he was on the opposite end of such punishment, she’d refused contact for over two weeks until he sent a bouquet of Flutterby flowers in apology. “Of course Ginn, I’d love to spend more time with you. But let’s not be hasty about this?”

He sighed in relief as she appeared comforted, and the rest of their conversation proceeded without disturbance. Nevertheless, Harry couldn’t help feel a nagging sense of agitation permeating throughout the conversation, stifling the intimacy the two one shared.

Ignoring the growing feeling, he bid goodnight to Ginny when the outdoor lamps automatically lit themselves.

“Love you, Harry.”

“Love you too, Ginn.”

 

oOo

_“Oooh, what I’d give to be in your position, mate.”_

Ronald Weasley snickered from his position perched on Harry’s desk. He smashed the remains of a Mars candy bar into his mouth before crumpling the wrapper in his fist, scattering crumbs all across Harry’s cluttered desk and floor. Harry sighed, realizing that he’d have to either clean up after his best mate’s mess, or call a house elf – the former required bending over, a form of action that aggravated his pounding headache, and the latter entailed a furious brunette scolding him about house elves’ rights.

He’d sooner pick the former. Harry leant down to grab a broom, beginning to sweep the crumbs into the dust bin as a second shower of crumbs rained down from above, signifying the completion of a second Mars bar. “Ron, couldn’t you perhaps be a little neater, hm? Or shove off onto your desk which is – as you know – conveniently located a few steps away. I’ve got a case on Purgatory that’s halfway complete, and I don’t think Kinglsey’ll appreciate it if I turn it in covered in chocolate.”

“No-thwi twong wi’ a lil’ bit o’ cholmurph,” Ron said, speech muffled with a mouth full. “Hangon, nee ta swah-oh.”

He gulped loudly as Harry winced under the sounds of his throat working the chocolate down. “Ah, that’s better. I said _‘Nothing wrong with a little bit of chocolate,_ ’ but that reminded me – Minister wanted to see you. Said it’s urgent.”

“When?” Harry demanded, attention snapping back to the redhead lazily creating purple bubbles out of his wand. “When’d he send you, Ron?”

“About-“ Ron checked his watch, and tsk-ed to himself. “-an hour ago, maybe?”

Harry groaned irritably, and smacked Ron upside the head. He felt a small sense of satisfaction when he heard a quiet yelp as he was striding out of his office, destination set to the Minister’s office.

 To other wizards and witches, the sight of the department’s most acclaimed Auror striding down the halls of the Ministry in full robes was a rare occurrence, one necessitating a certain standard of gawking and whispers, but Harry’s attention was unfocused from his surroundings. He hadn’t finished the write-up on Purgatory’s latest ventures into the policed Wizarding World as he was distracted over the last week, and perhaps this was what the Minister was hoping to address? It was his fault – he shouldn’t have been so preoccupied; people were getting _kidnapped_ and if he could only prevent one more innocent witch or wizard from _disappearing_ or worse, _dying_ -

“Ah, you’re here Auror Potter, please have a seat.” The Minister’s voice suddenly rang out, startling Harry from his thoughts. He blinked in confusion. His surroundings began filtering in, plush couches and straight-back wooden chairs littered across the Minister’s office, with only a single other chair occupied.

The occupant turned around at the sound of Harry’s entrance, and Harry felt his stomach drop.

It was Draco Malfoy.

No, it appeared to be someone who resembled Draco Malfoy; clearly this was an imposter, and a rather shabby one at that. No Draco Malfoy Harry was acquainted with would ever let his appearance become this… unkempt. But then he realized – it was the Veela himself. Draco’s hair lacked the luster that once gleamed from within, his eyebags even more prominent in the half-lit room. He was dressed in formal wear – obviously still making an effort at decent presentation – but appeared unquestionably drained.

“Settle down, Auror Potter, we’ve got something to go over.” The Minister snapped. “I don’t think we’ll be needing introductions, will we?”

Harry nodded mutely before settling uncomfortably on the edge of an unoccupied wooden chair. He refused direct eye contact with Draco Malfoy, choosing to instead observe the blonde from his peripheral vision while focusing on the Minister. He could, however, feel slightly bloodshot blue eyes pinning him to his seat.

“So as you and the rest of the Wizarding World know, Mr. Malfoy here is a Veela,” the Minister began, hands clasped on his desk in front of him. “And he has claimed you as a bondmate.”

“I reject!” Harry interjected furiously. “I reject his claim.”

Draco visibly flinched out of Harry’s peripheral vision. Surprisingly, he remained mute throughout Harry’s tirade. “I didn’t get a say in this, did I? Well, I’ll tell you now – if this is your way of thanking me for what happened at your trials, Malfoy, I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Auror Potter, I sincerely apologize, but the situation is a little more complex than what you are presuming,” the Minister said gravely. “We’ve only got a handful of male Veelas to ever exist in history, and none so far have elected to abandon their chosen mate-“

“Well, I’ll be the first!” Harry said firmly. “We’re not compatible, Minister. We will not be suitable mates.”

“Harry, this isn’t something that I’d like to discuss with you – but rejection is not an option.” Harry was aware that usage of his first name alluded to a faux sense of intimacy, signifying some sort of manipulation. But he wouldn’t be weedled into this, he couldn’t be tied down, forced into a relationship that he didn’t want-

“There must be a mistake, Minister,” Harry said desperately. He stood up, head spinning. “I can’t-“

“There is no mistake.” Malfoy’s voice reverberated hoarsely. “The bond has chosen you.”

Harry whipped his head around to stare at Draco. The other looked shaken at the direct attention suddenly placed upon his person, but kept his gaze strong. “I apologize, Auror Potter, if this is an inconvenience to you.”

Bullshit with the formalities. He was only trying to force Harry into feeling sympathetic with his cause. But would this be something Draco Malfoy would seriously consider putting himself through? Being tied eternally to someone who he presumably disliked?

Harry stared at Draco for a long moment, emotions churning right beneath the surface. Draco gazed back at Harry, eyes beseeching and – did Harry imagine it? Or did he see it? – a tad bit vulnerable.

 He sighed exhaustedly and slumped back into his chair. Harry felt the pounding in his head let up a slight bit, as if the beast within was tamed by cooperating. His voice was subdued when he spoke. “What does this contract entail?”

Clapping his hands together confidently, the Minister appeared much more relaxed now that events were proceeding in his favor. On his right, Draco remained silent, eyes round with anticipation.

“Let’s begin.”


	6. Chapter 6

“I’ve got to see him every week, Sirius; how am I going to deal with that?”

Harry’s complaints strongly affected the other man as the two stood in a cheery looking kitchen. “And I’m required to do,” Harry made a face suddenly. “Some _touching_.”

“Touching how?” Sirius was suddenly on edge, face masking his true emotions, but Harry detected disgust and anger broiling on the edges. He couldn’t understand why Sirius was so angry, but then Sirius said, “He’s not requiring you to-“

“OF COURSE NOT!” Harry yelled, face turning a violent shade of red. Oh Merlin, Sirius was thinking about _that_. “I’ve only got to do the sappy stuff, yunno, like hold his hand or touch his cheek.”

“Give him a little bit of sympathy, Harry. Draco is obviously not enjoying this as much as you think,” Remus said as he strode into the room. He clasped Harry’s hands warmly and smiled fondly, eyes crinkling in pleasure. “It is nice of you to stop by; Sirius, did you offer him a beverage, perhaps?”

Grumbling sounded from the black haired man as Sirius slouched off his stool to grab his wand from across the countertop. Twirling it casually – and a little bit dramatically, but only to show off to his husband, Harry thought-, Sirius asked, “Water, pumpkin juice, butterbeer, Harry? Or something stronger?”

“Butterbeer’ll be fine,” Harry said absentmindedly. “But what do you mean, Remus?”

“From your descriptions,” Remus waved off Sirius’ inquiries when he turned to the other. “It appears that Draco is equally uncomfortable with the idea of bonding as you are with the issue yourself.”

“He’s doing it to spite me.” Harry was bitter and he couldn’t comprehend why Remus was showing sympathy to the Veela. Malfoy, in his opinion, was a cold-hearted bastard who continuously spited Harry throughout their Hogwarts years and insisted on tormenting him throughout his adulthood. He was like a parasite that never let go.

Remus chuckled thinly. “No, I am certain Draco is not acting out of spite. It varies from species to species, but oftentimes, mates are chosen unconsciously and without any directed guidance.”

“Right, he’s fucked because I’m obviously the best catch he’s going to get,” Harry spat.

“No, Harry, he has chosen you for a much deeper reason. On a more primal level, you two are ultimately compatible. The bond ignores any surface interactions one may have had with the individual. It is quite unfortunate Draco’s Veela instincts has recognized a mate in you, but it is not by his own volition, I can assure you.” Remus sighed and rested his head on his hands. Sirius, noticing something amiss with his husband, slipped from around the corner to lean reassuringly against Remus’ side. The sudden display of outward affection and physical intimacy shut Harry up; oftentimes, the two communicated primarily through conversations and eye contact, choosing to keep more intimate behavior away from sight. Sirius chipped in, “Moony would know, wouldn’t he?”

“It is how I knew Sirius was the one for me,” Remus said affectionately, raising his head to smile gently as the other and lightly caress Sirius’ hand. “First time I saw him, I knew.”

“That’s lovely, but Malfoy’s hated me ever since Hogwarts, Remus,” Harry complained. “He hated me. I almost tried to kill him. He’s wanted to kill me. This whole ‘need to murder’ complicates things, you know?”

“See, Remus!” Sirius burst out, clearly still incensed from his earlier outburst. “Malfoy wanted to kill Harry. _Kill._ And we’re expected to tolerate his suddenly subdued homicidal rage because of this Veela bond?”

Remus raised a single eyebrow. “I’ve wanted to kill you before, Sirius. Every full moon, in fact. Despite this, it does not change the feelings I have for you, nor the bond we’ve created together.” Remus was right, but it didn’t feel good to think about Draco being manipulated by the Veela instinct, but was this Harry being upset on his behalf? As if.

However, when Harry thought about their lives together thus far, he had a difficult time admitting that Draco had sincerely wished him dead. Rather, it seemed as if the blond erred by simply being in the wrong family at birth – being born into a family intimate with the Dark Lord hardly allowed for defection or development beyond a narrowed mindset. Sirius, contrastingly, was a clear example of absconding from one’s family; though the black haired main adamantly insisted on not glorifying his not-so-kind past, especially when pertaining to bullying Snape during his Hogwarts years. Harry knew that Sirius wasn’t proud of his actions during his childhood, and insisted that a large portion of it derived from an unstable upbringing in the Black household, after which his defection severely decreased the frequency of bullying.

Could Malfoy be similar? It wasn’t as if he seriously intended to harm any individual in particular, more a childish behavior of being mischievous towards Harry and his friends during their early Hogwarts years. After all, their eighth year at Hogwarts together was remarkably calm, which would’ve been brought to Harry’s attention had he not been completely focused on his Auror qualifications. And this also reminded Harry of his time in the Malfoy Manor during the war – by lying through omission, Malfoy had saved Harry’s life.

But saving his life wasn’t equal to the romantic intricacies of falling in love. For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy couldn’t even talk to him straight about the requirements of a bond. Regardless of his (questionable) morals, Harry was frustrated with the cowardice of Malfoy’s human side. If he was going to engage in a relationship with the Veela, he’d have to work on communications-

Wait. Was he admitting to possibly considering a relationship with Malfoy? That’s ridiculous; he’s dating Ginny. Harry was just sleep-deprived and exhausted because of work…

Harry sighed irritably and briefly considered banging his head repeatedly against the table, but thought that Remus wouldn’t appreciate him ruining their cedar wood cabinets with a Harry shaped indent.

“Stay for a cup, Harry?” Remus smiled invitingly. “Or dinner; we were thinking of making stew. Feel free to stay for supper.”

He’d put off thinking about Malfoy for at least a day or two. Or maybe a week.  

 

oOo

 

Halfway across London, Malfoy sat primly in his drawing room, delicately sipping a cup of Earl Grey tea his mother had prepared for him earlier. She had cited concerns for his… unseemly physical appearance, or Narcissa Malfoy-speak for motherly concern about his deteriorating health. They’d nearly had a falling out an hour prior, what with her comments about Harry Potter – it wasn’t as if she hated him, after all, he’d stood witness at her trial and pleaded for her amnesty, but she couldn’t understand why Draco had specifically chosen Harry Potter. Conflicts and bad exposure, she had cited, but Draco thought his mother feared his mate more than anything.

And then the thought of his bondmate sent fear and attraction trickling into his heart. These emotions were not unfamiliar to Draco prior to his Veela maturation, but were certainly amplified post-awakening. Not that he’d ever admit to such vulnerability to Harry, choosing instead to quietly nurse a broken heart from afar. Shite. He was becoming such a bloody flop, what with ‘broken heart’ and ‘attraction’ added to his vocabulary.

Draco smoothed down the ruffled feathers on his wings and stretched out luxuriously before tucking in the tips of his wings securely. He briefly considered visiting Potter himself, but a sudden _Pop!_ at the entrance of his drawing room startled the Veela. Draco turned around to see Blaise Zabini, former Hogwarts classmates and one of the few friends Draco maintained during his time abroad, striding towards him.

He stood quickly and embraced the other as the man drew near. “How have you been, Draco?” Blaise asked, forehead knitted in concern. “You look a little under my expectations of a male Veela. I had expect more wooing and irresistibility from you,” he teased.

“Knock off, Zabini.” Draco’s voice was firm, but his face showed the affection he felt for his friend. He sneered familiarly and said, “Surely you’ve read the Daily Prophet.”

“Delivered every day to my apartment, not that I ordered it myself. Pansy likes to read over the news – prattles on about keeping up with the latest fashion trends, but she’s still hungering for gossip, as we know.” Zabini grinned humorously.

This small talk was distracting Draco from his focus. He’d directly address the issue and explain why he had requested Zabini to visit at such an unseemly hour – for a spontaneous visit in the late evening, the other male had responded astonishingly quickly. Must be a part of Zabini’s needy personality, but Draco would tease him later about it. “Any updates about… him?” Draco said as casually as he could despite his internal turmoil.

Zabini grinned and flopped indelicately on a Draco’s vacated couch, nearly tipping over the teacup of tea. Draco internally winced but held back his admonishments in favor of finding out his answer. “Ah, your boyfriend?”

“We’re not boyfriends,” Draco shot back, feathers twitching anxiously. He took a deep breath and tried to respond rationally. “Just complicated.” Bugger. He’d just admitted to having a relationship of a sort with Harry, which was mortifying enough.

“Ah.” Zabini didn’t push it any further, a fact Draco was grateful for. He quickly changed the subject to the relief of the Veela. “Not much has changed, Harry’s still alive and kicking. His sidekick is a clutz as usual; spilt an entire briefcase of cursed snapping turtles on him. Got a nasty pinch myself trying to subdue the lot,” Zabini lifted up a hand and displayed a puffy thumb with a turtle’s bite imprinted on the skin. “Overall, a relatively quiet day… Or as quiet as one could get with Ronald Weasley in the office.”

Zabini worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as a secretarial scribe – he would’ve pursued the Auror career path, but stereotypes at his Pureblood heritage forbade any Slytherin House graduates from working as magical officers. Another discrimination Draco knew Harry was trying to destroy, but considering their questionable past, he couldn’t put it past the public to be on edge. Prejudiced, of course, but understandable.

Draco smiled in relief, reassured that his bondmate had gone through another day (relatively) unharmed. Even if Harry would prefer that Draco remained far, far away from interfering in his life, at least Draco could ensure his safety from afar. Draco knew of Zabini’s sharpened skills in Defense magic and Charms, and despite his tumultuous past with the Chosen One, he was ultimately grateful to Harry and wouldn’t hesitate to lay down his life for Harry’s safety.

This much, Draco could do for him. Pine from afar and station supporters to protect his loved one. Like one of those romantic Fabian books he had read during his escape abroad.

“Still a cowardly fairy, Draco?” Zabini teased. “You haven’t talked to him, I see.”

“He’d rather not see me.” Draco’s wings wilted unhappily. “He made it explicitly clear the last time I ‘interfered’.”

Head bowed, Draco didn’t notice the other moving until he felt a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “S’all right, he’ll come ‘round. You didn’t drop the bond request on him, did you?”

“S’not my fault! I was legally obliged to inform the minister, and he personally requested a meeting, I couldn’t have prevented any of it from happening. It’s not ideal, and I’m sure he’s upset with me.” Draco’s voice was tight with anger.

“Jeez Draco, get your emotions under control. You’ll be setting an allure on me, soon enough.”

“They _are_ in control.” Blaise snorted. Draco ignored him and continued, “He just doesn’t understand, Blaise. I can’t allure him any more than I to you.”

“Well, when you both stop being weak-wiled fairies, you’ll have a tête-à-tête with biscuits ‘n tea and work things through. Then you’ll fuck, marry, and have beautiful kids together.” Blaise didn’t understand. He really, truly didn’t understand. But Draco would humor him and his simplistic mindset of thinking.

Seventy kilometers away from his mate, Draco pinched his nose bridge and sighed remarkably similarly to Harry Potter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: A teeny bit of violence & friction in relationships.

When Harry dragged himself into his office early Monday morning, he was less than amused to see firstly, a new collection of biscuit crumbs scattered across his carpet, and secondly, his best mate - but not at this moment - currently occupying his desk. Ron turned at the sound of their door creaking open, and grinned widely at Harry – his gums coated in chocolaty remains-, and Harry would’ve thunked his head into his desk had it not been currently occupied by the offender in question.

The past weekend was especially rough. Ginny had firecalled and things were… not looking so great, Harry reluctantly admitted. Perhaps their tension was attributed to their distance apart – both physically and emotionally – or the growing divide between both individuals in their desires, goals, and dreams. Ginny had again expressed her desire to quit the Holyhead Harpies and move back to London to be with Harry. Not that he would necessarily be opposed to the idea, but it seemed especially uncharacteristic of her to give up so close to the Quidditch World Cup. She had seemed exhausted throughout their conversation – during which Ginny recounted their practices in high detail, emphasizing Jones’ ‘lunatic’ request of extra dryland practices afterwards-, so Harry took pity on her and bid her a good night when her head began drooping in the ashes. As Ginny was leaving, he thought he heard Tonks in the background help her up from her position crouched over the fireplace, and Harry felt a stab of unknown emotion piercing his chest.

But he hadn’t had much time to reflect on his relationship with Ginny, not with his Purgatory case looming in the distance. Every day, the number of hate crimes against magical creatures was rising, and Harry was feeling pressured to get a lead – _any lead_ – on the delinquents and happenings inside the Wizarding gang. He’d worked all weekend on searching for clues within a slew of news clippings and reported sightings, and had arrived at only minimal conclusions. For one, the perpetrators appeared to be wizards of full Wizarding status, a factor that may prove detrimental when the Ministry’s Auror team directly confronted them.

His concern out of his godfather’s safety (and begrudgingly, Malfoy as well) resulted in very little sleep for Harry. He had tossed and turned all hours of the night, and extracted himself out of his bed at the break of dawn to throw himself back into his work. And here Ron was, arriving to work early for the first time in what appeared to be weeks, currently sprawled across Harry’s space when he – as Harry conveniently reminded him on a biweekly basis – had his own desk a mere three feet adjacent to Harry’s.

“I hope you’ve got some good news,” Harry sighed as he plunked his briefcase onto Ron’s empty desk before collapsing into the chair. He rubbed his forehead anxiously and tried to regain some semblance of composure before looking at Ron again.

“You don’t look so great, mate,” Ron said worriedly, grin slowly fading into a look of concern. “Sure you don’t want to take a day off? Get some fresh air,” He gestured to their window which was currently being pelted with rain. Hard rain. Harry shivered. “Er… or go grab a cuppa?”

“ ‘M fine, Ron,” Harry mumbled as he opened his briefcase to extract a matching set of mismatched papers and scattered them all across Ron’s desk. “Found anything?”

“Yeah, this book of yours.”

Harry spun around in his chair so suddenly that he was rendered momentarily dizzy. When the stars blinking in his vision was finally snuffed, he saw Ron pointing to a fat, thick book peeking out from beneath a few papers. Last night, Harry had absentmindedly stuffed it underneath a manuscript of the latest peanut butter-related crimes of the 20th century, clearly not adequately hiding it from sight.

Ron pulled it out the rest of the way and began paging through the dog-eared leaves. “You’re taking this Veela business seriously, huh?”

“Stop that,” Harry mumbled, making a swipe for the book only for Ron to pull it further out of reach. Realizing that Ron’s curiosity would result in the redhead sniffing out the book from even underneath Harry’s gym socks, he sank back into his chair with a groan. “So what if I am?”

“Not judging you, mate.” Ron was already skimming through the text at a blinding speed. Huh. Maybe some of Hermione’s Better Reading Tips rubbed off on her husband. “But some of this shit is rubbish, I’d say. ‘ _The male Veela will display possessive behavior when confronted with a suitor for his mate. He will enter a state of mind that can – and will – eviscerate any and all threats-’”_ Ron looked up in horror. His voice shook as he said, “Harry?”

“Erm…” He didn’t know what to say. Frankly, he hadn’t gotten far in the book yet– Harry had only pulled it out of some dark and dusty corner in the local Wizarding library last week, and he hadn’t gotten to the chapter on mating rituals. He was still stuck on the history of Veelakind, for Merlin’s sake!

“You’re not actually serious about this, are you, mate?” Ron asked. Was the room warm? Harry tugged on his collar anxiously as Ron shot him a suspicious look. “I mean, this is the sort of shite that would top the Daily Prophet’s readcount-“

“We’ll discuss this later,” Harry suggested hastily. He quickly changed the subject back to Ron. “On the subject of news… what sort of information brought you in so early this morning? I mean, it’s not like you’ve got anything else to do in your mornings…” He trailed off suggestively, praying that Ron would take the bait.

“Shut up,” Rom muttered, ears turning pink. That did the trick. When it came to his sex life, Ron was so easy to sidetrack. A shit-eating grin plastered once again, Ron turned back to the papers in front of him and answered confidently. “Honey badgers.”

“Honey who?” Harry muttered. Honey badges? What would Purgatory have to do with badges – gross; any discussion of badges reminded Harry of **“Potter Stinks!”** flashed around a dark and smelly classroom. Huh. Maybe this whole sleep-deprivation stint really is overly distracting.

“Honey badgers,” Ron exclaimed once again. “The connection is in the _honey badgers_.”

Harry had to take several deep breaths to extinguish his desire to violently throttle Ron ‘round the neck. Wouldn’t do to stain his nice office chair, after all.

“More specifically, the honey badger liver,” Ron continued. “Anatomically similar to a weasel, the honey badger liver is illegally sold as a replacement for weasel livers.” He paused here to shiver violently at the thought of weasels being harvested for their liver. “They’re often sold as fakes in potion stores, but not since Ruling 295.A49 – generally, the qualities are similar for basic potion brewing, with one exception: the concentration of albumin in a honey badger liver is 200% more than in traditional weasel livers.”

Again, Ron paused; but this time for dramatic effect.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Go on, Ron, what’d you find?”

“Albumin is relatively harmless to humans – it’s in our blood, after all – but in sufficient concentration, it can be fatal to magical creatures, especially of pureblood descent.” Ron looked grim at the end of his sentence. Harry braced himself for what Ron had apparently been building up to. “We’ve recorded a markedly large order of badger liver to a factory warehouse in the Southeast District. Unknown seller.”

“Let’s go.” Harry stood up to leave, but Ron yanked him back down to sit again. Harry glared at Ron furiously, but the redhead interrupted him first. “Don’t be so hasty, Harry. If Purgatory’s planning on poisoning the entire population of magical creatures, we’re expecting that they won’t be welcoming to a tea party invasion.”

“So we’ll just slip down there to snoop around and head out, fifteen minutes tops.” It was so simple to Harry – why couldn’t Ron understand this? – thousands of lives were at stake. Had the honey badger livers already been gifted to the Merpeople, or worse, sold to Wolfsbane brewers, the Ministry could be facing a mass genocide of magical creatures comparable to the Second Wizarding War.

Ron pondered for a split second before grabbing his cloak and heading for the door. Holding it open for Harry to pass through, he said breezily, “Yeah, what could go wrong?”

 

oOo

 

And the answer to Ron’s question: possibly everything.

Not five minutes had passed since their Apparition to the Southeast District when the two Aurors were mobbed by rogue Wizards in dark indigo cloaks. Fleeing wasn’t quite an option any more – damn those anti-Apparition charms, Harry really should’ve checked with the register for any recorded requests for the Southeast sector of London – and their vibrantly colored Auror cloaks weren’t the easiest to disguise. Charmed against color reducing spells, the vibrancy of their cloaks were obvious to all. They first tried to counter against their attackers, but as the number of attackers slowly swelled, Harry and Ron nodded to each other and dashed away, attackers hot on their heels in pursuit.

Flashes of red light illuminated the puddles clinging to the cold bricks, sending reflections of Curses scattered about the cobblestone paths of Martha Magladine’s Drug Factory. Fortunately, this particular factory was void of Muggles and Wizards alike, a blessing for the two Aurors who were hurtling around corners without checking beforehand.

Harry was hit in the side by a slashing spell which cut through his thick Auror’s cloak to painfully slice open the side of his torso. Blood immediately began pooling in the cut, seeping onto his skin and leaving a dark red trickle trail behind him. He winced, but kept stumbling behind Ron, trying to run even faster, but alas-

“Hold yer ‘orses!” A hoarse voice rang out from behind Harry. “A’ve got a wand pointed at yer, and I ain’t ‘fraid to use it!”

Harry and Ron froze.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ron double over as if he was in pain – the rogue Wizard started forwards, perceiving Ron’s actions to be one of a wounded animal - but straightened up almost instantaneously, sending a nonverbal hex directly into the Wizard’s chest. For a split second, nothing happened. Everyone stared at each other in confusion with brows furrowed in anticipation.

Harry, internally sending a very expletive curse word in Ron’s direction, whipped his wand around to follow up to Ron’s failed curse, but before he could utter the first words of the Bat Boogey Hex, the rogue wizard coughed wetly.

A large pale yellow glob flew out of his mouth and landed with a squish on his outstretched palm.

Everyone stared. Harry, his wand still outstretched in caution, and Ron, looking quite pleased with himself, peered at the blob suspiciously. The rogue wizard hacked again loudly and hunched over in agony, letting loose a slew of more blobs in varying shades of yellow and brown. The first blob in his hand fell onto the concrete floor as the wizard grabbed at his chest to stifle his coughs.

And then the pale yellow blob started moving. As Harry watched in horror (and Ron in glee), two eyes peeked out from the head in obviously a gastropod-like fashion, and the entire slug slowly inched its way across the pavement. If Harry wasn’t in significant pain, he would’ve started heaving up his breakfast.

Sufficiently distracted, the rogue wizard hardly noticed the two Aurors fleeing.

“Good one, mate,” Harry whispered to Ron as they ducked underneath a broken arch. “Real clever back there.”

Rounding the corner, Harry and Ron happened upon an abandoned courtyard - green moss overtook the honeysuckle vines on broke trellises scattered about, but the two Aurors were too preoccupied to admire Mother Nature’s artistic skills. They stomped right in the lilies patches and made a mad dash for what obviously appeared to be an exit to Martha Magladine’s Drug Factory.

A jet of red light flashing over Harry’s shoulder encouraged a quick exit. The two boys sprinted out of the abandoned factory, making a break for the nearest side street to throw off their straggling pursuers.

Thus the need to duck into a dingy brothel around the corner. Harry tossed down a handful of Muggle money before being ushered into a dingy back room. They’d paid for half an hour in a private room and were forced to stay until the Anti-Apparition charm expired. For now, the two Aurors listened intently as footsteps pounded on the pavement outside the grimy window, but no bangs or screams sounded out.

They were safe, for now.

“Great plan, Harry,” Ron gasped, still out of breath. “ _’Just slip down there to snoop around’_ , you said, _‘fifteen minutes tops,’_ – well, I’ll let you know that I’ve got a date planned with ‘mione and if I’m late again, she’ll have my head!”

“If we’re found, there won’t be any head left for the taking,” Harry countered as he began charming the room with anti-detection spells and concealment charms. He hissed as a sweeping wand movement stretched his side in a particularly painful manner, and muttered _‘Epipskey’_ to slow the bleeding and knit the torn tissue.

“Hysterical,” Ron groaned before collapsing on the bed. Realizing what sorts of illicit activities may have previously occurred on the mattress, he jumped up immediately, face paling in disgust. Shaking his head in distaste, he looked at Harry now hunched over and spelling the corners of the room. His eyes narrowed in on his dark haired friend. “You know what else is hysterical?”

“Yeah, Ron?” Harry muttered distractedly.

“Ginny’s thinking of taking a break from the Harpies.” Ron said. Harry slowly straightened up to look at Ron who had a peculiar expression on his face – it looked as if he was trying to make a joke, but failing miserably. Ron grinned weakly and rubbed at his face, smearing streaks of dirt across a canvas of freckles. “What a joke, right?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked slowly, heart beginning to pound again. Ginny hadn’t mentioned telling her family, how would Ron have known? And why would Ginny be

“Tonks told me,” Ron said, voice carefully neutral to disguise his curiosity. “They said they overheard Ginny talking ‘bout quitting to you. They were kinda worried about her, you know. Said she was up all hours of the night, and upset at Jones’ taking the mickey out on her during practice, too.”

Harry slumped down to the floor, leaning heavily against the dark wood panels on the walls.

“Look, Harry. You’re one of my best mates,” Ron began, but Harry cut him off.

“We’re… going through a rough patch.”

Ron snorted. “S’not obvious, is it?” he jibbed, but sobered up immediately. “It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?”

“No,” Harry said a little too fast, but Ron was perceptive. Too perceptive – good for his career, but not good for secret-keeping from best mates. Ron snorted disparagingly, and Harry corrected his statement. “Alright, maybe a little.”

Ron just raised an eyebrow.

“She wants to quit the Holyhead Harpies for a journalism post at the Department of Magical Games and Sports,” Harry said dully. “Buy a white picket house, maybe have three kids and add a few more crups to the family. I’m just not ready for that, mate, I can’t be held down like that; being an Auror will mean there’s always a target on my back. I can’t do that to her, let alone a child of hers.” He’s babbling at this point, but it feels so good to let out all his worries. “She hasn’t said it yet, but she wants me to quit the DMLE. Get a desk job, one with job security and benefits, and most importantly, a hazard-free workplace, if you ignore the flying scissors and biting staplers. That’s beside the point – I don’t want to be tied down like that, Ron, I don’t understa-“

Ron came over to sit next to Harry’s side, pressed up against the other Auror like how they used to snuggle together under the covers back at Hogwarts. His warmth was comforting, even reassuring to the dark haired wizard, and Harry took several shaky, but deep breaths to calm and center himself.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, gazing blankly at the drizzle beginning to form outside.

Ron was the first one to break the silence. “She’s my sister, you know.”

As if he couldn’t feel more miserable, Harry _knew_ he was also hurting Ron; he couldn’t _not_ hurt the ones he loved in his life, but as he thought this, hot tears began welling up in his eyes, and he scrubbed at them gruffly, trying to force the sickly feeling of shame down-

“But sometimes, she wants the things in life that she can’t have.” Ron finished.

Raising his head to look at his friend, Harry saw Ron staring determinedly at the ceiling. “You’ll have to figure it out with her. Talk to her, _really_ talk to her, and figure out what you both want – because clearly, neither of you both seem happy with that arrangement.”

Both Harry and Ron stayed pressed together, sides touching until the rain slowed to a drizzle, and finally subsided.

 

oOo

 

It was her voice ringing in his kitchen that first alerted Harry to Ginny’s presence.

She shouldn’t be here – _wasn’t there early morning Holyhead Harpies practice tomorrow on the islands? -_ Harry thought as he gently closed the front door to his flat before walking towards his kitchen. Dropping his bedraggled Auror cloak off in a hamper, he made a mental note to ask Mrs. Weasley to mend a few holes in the damaged fabric. As Harry loosened the shirt around his collar, he winced in pain as the residual effects from his injury that afternoon sent a prickling sensation coursing through his side.

“-and I’ve just arrived; thanks for checking up on me, Nymph, I’ll see you in a few,” Ginny was chatting happily on his landline phone, leaning against a counter in the semidarkness. Noticing Harry lingering in the doorway, she hastily ended the conversation with, “Oh, he’s just arrived, I’ll catch you later!”

Hanging up the phone, Ginny darted across the kitchen to embrace Harry in a warm hug. At first, he stiffened in surprise, but slowly sank into her embrace as he softened against the warmth of her body, surrounded with the scent of peach blossoms and a hint of flowery perfume. They stood there in silence for a moment, simply relishing in each other’s presence, before both spoke at the same time.

“ lo, Ginny,” Harry began.

“Harry, it’s-“ Ginny said.

They stopped, eyed each other, until Harry gestured for Ginny to speak first. She gave his shoulder one final pat before stepping away slightly. “Harry, it’s been too long; I’ve missed you so much, how are you?”

She reached behind him to flick on the light switch, and Harry instinctively flinched away from Ginny to hide the evidence of his injury from earlier that afternoon. When the lights flickered on, Ginny let out a quiet gasp – her eyes first went to Harry’s face, covered in dust and grime, then to his body – clothes torn and ripped, large stains visible on his trousers, and then to his side where a ripped seam in the fabric let blood stains on his skin peek through. Ginny’s eyes flashed – and Harry swallowed nervously –and she didn’t say anything for a long moment.

It was a pregnant pause.

“What happened?” Ginny asked quietly. When Harry took too long to respond, Ginny cut in again, voice growing shaper. “ _Don’t lie to me Harry_ , something happened – are you hurt?”

“Not anymore,” Harry fibbed as he felt his side twinge in pain. “Just a little sore.”

“ _’Just a little sore’_ – Harry, that doesn’t cut it, you’re bleeding everywhere, for Merlin’s sake!” She was getting worked up, close to tears, and Harry tried to reach out to comfort her, but she swatted his hands away. “I can’t handle this anymore Harry, not knowing whether you’ll return to me _dead_ or memory charmed and brain addled-“

“What do you want me to do about it, then, Ginny?” Harry shot back heatedly. He wasn’t planning on having this conversation right now, or even tonight; all he wanted was a warm mug of tea and a snuggle with his Crup, not another argument with his girlfriend. “I _can’t_ do anything about it now-“

_“Quit the DMLE.”_

“I can’t,” Harry said tiredly. He was tired of fighting with Ginny, having his life orchestrated by other people, and wanted to just go to sleep. “I can’t leave the DMLE short an Auror. This is my life, Ginny.”

“Then we are at an impasse, Harry.” She shot back, in a snide comment eerily similar to Remus. She swept beyond him to linger by the front door. Without turning around, Ginny said, “Good night.”

She left with a bang, and Harry couldn’t hold his back anymore. He lashed out, arm sweeping across his body and sending several ceramic platters crashing to the ground. The loud crash that echoed around his kitchen only fueled his anger, and he was about to chuck his antique coffee maker through the window when he heard a small whimper from behind him.

His Crup. Lyra stood peering out from behind a corner, the tip of her nose trembling in fear. At the sight of his pet, Harry calmed down immediate, kneeling down and opening his arms for her to snuggle close.

Harry stood in his kitchen, arms wrapped around Lyra and fingers twisted in her soft white fur, the pain in his side the only thing keeping him grounded to this moment. He thought back to the passage Ron quoted to him earlier -

_The male Veela will display possessive behavior when confronted with a suitor for his mate. He will enter a state of mind that can – and will – eviscerate any and all threats._

Ironically enough, the male Veela in Harry’s life wasn’t the one trying to possess and manipulate him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen and all kinds of magical folks, I've finally returned.
> 
> I know. It's been 1.5 months since the last update. Life basically served me punishment on a silver platter in the form of E&M and Statistical Analysis of Galaxies, and I had no choice but to take it. It was brutal, and I've been trying my best to piece together this little chapter by the end of October - and I'm happy to say it has finally arrived :D
> 
> Please enjoy! And anticipate the tiny Drarry scene I slipped into the end - it's a reward for being so tolerant of me missing deadlines a thousand times over. Note it won't be a completely frictionless path to the road of pure Drarry love, but this is a start of being less nasty to each other. (Not that they were ever *nasty* per se, but less antagonistic!)
> 
> Warnings: friction in relationship, very slight mention of childhood abuse and trauma.

“Look Harry, I’m really sorry about last night.”

Ginny placed a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. He didn’t turn around.

“I am too.” Harry said quietly in return.

She was worried, he could tell. Even though he couldn’t see her expression, Harry knew that Ginny’s face was probably pinched in some combination of despondency and exhaustion. But, characteristic of Ginny’s radiant personality, she forced cheer into her voice when she next spoke.

“So, we’re alright?”

Harry leaned his head against the cool glass of his office’s window. He closed his eyes, unsure if in defeat or submission, and said back, “ ‘Course, Ginn.”

“Awesome. By the way, Nymph was meaning to show you this new Quidditch maneuver they came up with the other day, something about aerodynamics of minimizing air drag-“ Ginny began to prattle, voice droning and fading into the background of Harry’s mind. She was good at this, avoiding a subject that was clearly causing both of them pain. In the beginning, Harry admired her penchant for always remaining positive, but a few years into their relationship, Harry realized how problematic it was for them to ignore deep-rooted issues like this one.

They weren’t going to talk about their future. They never did. Harry was used to dealing with the dead remains of his relationship under his feet, and he didn’t know how to pick the thorns out until it was too late, blood dripping from freshly open wounds. The vibrancy of the roses that made up their youthful relationship had long faded into a heap of thorns, with every step forwards causing stony silences and radiating emotional distress. Being in this relationship with Ginny was probably one of the best decisions Harry’s ever made in Hogwarts, but the Harry now – nearing thirty and still carrying the burden of his abusive childhood on his shoulders – was much different from the over-achiever, hero Adonis Harry of his Hogwarts days.

He loved Ginny; he truly did. But the spark of romance has been long diminished in favor of comfortable companionship with occasional sex, and the once-in-a-blue-moon arguments slowly delved into weekly quarrels. More recently, their tone of their arguments had shifted to Harry’s career and personal life; to be fair he reasoned, they’ve always concentrated on his faults and limitations, as opposed to his capabilities and passion to drive further. Ginny wasn’t holding him back per se, but he felt a longing for a life that never existed.

“So next Saturday would be feasible?” A cool palm brushed Harry’s cheek, bringing him back into the present. He blinked in confusion before dazedly turning to face his girlfriend. Harry noticed a small flicker of sadness skirt across Ginny’s face before being replaced with concealed anticipation. “I’ve already told Tonks you’d be able to make it; please don’t let me down, Harry!”

The puppy-dog eyes were in full effect, and Harry was weak to their offense. He briefly wondered how anyone could be so cruel as to resist the overly-round, glassy green eyes of Ginny, then realized she had been taught the art of persuasion by the masters themselves, brothers Fred and George. A small smile tinged at the corner of Harry’s lips as he quipped back in response, “I’d love to, Ginny.”

A warm smile broke out across Ginny’s face, streaked golden in the warm light of the morning sun rising over the moors. Harry vaguely thought of how her hair was tinted with shades of blonde – a very fitting color, Harry determined – before she embraced him. And similarly to last night, he melted in her embrace, clutching at her womanly frame – but not before thinking his own personal sun lighting up his soul had been diminished, and he couldn’t quite tell why.

oOo

 

It hadn’t been more than fifteen minutes after Ginny’s departure when Harry felt the itching desire to venture outside of his office and stretch his legs. Quite recently, he had been feeling exceptionally anxious and cooped up, blaming his anxieties on the slow progress of dealing with the Purgatory case. Perhaps a change of scenery and interaction with different individuals would refresh Harry’s brain, and jumpstart a few neurons into thinking spatially. Or perhaps not.

“I’ll go visit Hermione; maybe she’ll have a better perspective,“ Harry muttered, hands smoothing his robes down anxiously as he looked about for his wand. The itching to move about, to go explore was pulsing stronger than before, and Harry never realized how stifling his office was until this very moment. Conceivably the dreary stone walls – plastered with moving images of potential Purgatory members – and chamber-like feel of overly formal furniture made it seem even more oppressing than usual, or the culmination of Harry’s and Ginny’s turbulent relationship woes had his shared office feeling like a jail cell. Or perhaps it appeared too similarly to a different room, one decorated in a similar chamber-like fashion-

Squashing that thought down, Harry relocated his wand and set upon his task with calm determination. And succumbing to his traditional mindset of asking Hermione for help – a characteristic of Harry since his first year in Hogwarts – he slung his bag across his shoulder and made for the entrance.  

Not ten meters out of his office did Harry collide with a figure walking rapidly in the opposite direction. One slick surface later, he found himself sprawled on his back, a sharp pain stinging at the back of his skull. He blinked several times as sparkling lights winked in his vision, before sitting up gingerly.

“Ouch, mate, you alright?” Harry said, wincing and rubbing at his sore shoulder. Looking around him, he briefly noticed several papers of his Purgatory report scattered about, before glancing up at the individual who he bumped shoulders with seconds prior. The first thing Harry noticed was their height – despite the rain-slick floor and the suddenness of the physical collision, his counterpart managed to remain upright while Harry tumbled (quite ungracefully) to the floor.

Eyes trailing up a slim-cut and razor-creased pants suit, then lingering on a thick knit scarf, Harry realized the man was staring right back at him. Draco Malfoy’s stormy gray eyes pinned Harry to the floor, an unexpectedly expressionless look on his face, one that had been gracing his features frequently in their recent meetings. Harry was quite unused to the neutrality of Draco’s expressions as the blonde boy generally settled for a disgusted, disgruntled appearance that reminded Harry of someone with a Dungbomb lit beneath their nose.

“You!” Harry bit back his tongue nearly as quickly as he uttered that exclamation. He hadn’t meant to sound so snappish, but Draco’s appearance literally took him by surprise. He was expecting to see Draco’s face twist into a sneer, but the most surprising thing happened: Draco’s expression morphed into one of vulnerability. He seemed affected, eyes glistening with unshed tears and features wavering on the cusp of emotion. This was a look Harry hadn’t seen before, but what was he doing by analyzing Draco’s expressions?

But then the words of Harry’s exclamation seemed to register in Draco’s mind. Perhaps it was the accusatory tone in Harry’s language that startled Draco out of his stupor. He blinked several times, innocent look replaced with a shaky haughty expression, mask firmly in place.

“Yes, me,” Draco sneered. “Who were you expecting to find, oh Chosen One? Your girlfriend, the bird, left a while ago.”

Harry’s vision became tinged with red. How dare Draco insult Ginny, completely unprovoked? He set his jaw irritably, teeth grinding together in frustration. Counting to three silently to calm his anger, Harry simply said, “I’m sorry Draco, but I can’t deal with this. Or you.”

He made to stand up. Draco didn’t help him. Harry pretended not to notice when Draco chose to instead lean heavily on the wall. Gathering all of his papers, Harry made to stride away.

“See you ‘round, Malfoy,” he said breezily, voice a tad too ‘breezy’ to be casual. But a hand shot out to gently grasp at his elbow. Clearly Harry’s estimation of the distance between them was much by his fall.

“Wait, Potter.” Again, Draco was asking for Harry to stay. He wouldn’t have, but the slight waver in his voice gave him pause. He turned around slowly, eyes roving over Draco’s face; Harry felt slightly queasy when he realized how exhausted the other looked. Dark purple circles weighed his clear eyes down, and when Draco momentarily closed his eyes to gather his thoughts, Harry noticed light lavender shading the lids of his eyes. Taking pause to examine the rest of Draco’s complexion, Harry noted with disbelief a slight gray pallor to Draco’s skin tone, and a sheen of perspiration covering his face. Clearly the other hadn’t been taking good care of himself, but why had Harry bothered to even care? It wasn’t as if Harry was actually concerned for his well-being…

Well, he did. As in, Harry sincerely cared for Draco. He always did – from frantic repetition of healing charms to fix Draco’s wounds in their 6th year, to finding the best wizarding lawyers to defend his case post-wartime, Harry had always considered Draco’s wellbeing. But he didn’t necessarily _care_ for Draco - not like a friend would, and definitely not like a lover. To some extent, they were mild acquaintances. And that would have to carry them through their shared experience. It would be enough.

“Yes, Malfoy?” Harry prompted, shoving his fists into the deep recesses of his pockets; and, in the process, shoving the rest of his thoughts down and away to be repressed in the dark corners of his mind.  He stepped away from Draco, the Veela’s hand falling awkwardly down to his side, and ignored the quiet little voice in his head demanding to clutch at Draco’s hand and sing proclamations of love.

“That book you’re holding,” Draco gestured at the book Ron had earlier commented on. Harry was quite taken aback to have Draco’s attention fixated on something else besides his face, and paused his inner monologue to gape blankly at Draco’s face. “It isn’t the copy of _Begrimed Beasts of Magical Encounters_ by Claremonde Yaxley?”

“And if it is?” Harry replied, a tad bit defensively. He unconsciously tucked the book even further into his bag as if hiding it from view would refocus the subject of conversation onto a different topic.

“ _The_ Claremond Yaxley?” Draco questioned further. Clearly finding no suitable response when Harry’s face showed a blank look, he sighed and rolled his eyes. “Claremond Yaxley of the Sacred Twenty Eight; notorious magical creatures protestor and poacher.” Harry’s face was quickly paling, but Draco continued. “Of all the Pureblood families, the Yaxleys despised non-humans the most, heralding the majority of efforts to abolish rights for half-beings.”

Shit. Harry didn’t know any of this. He spluttered out a half excuse, but then Draco quickly crowded into his space, and his Auror reflexes had him flinching backwards, thoughts of over-possessive and violent Veelas crowding his mind.

Draco simply gave him a levied glare as he plucked the book from Harry’s bag, and began to flip through it rapidly. Coming across the page Harry had previously dog-eared, Draco mouthed over the words on the page before raising his eyes to stare at Harry in an expression roughly translatable to shock.

Harry didn’t need the book in front of him to know what that passage said. ‘ _The male Veela will display possessive behavior when confronted with a suitor for his mate. He will enter a state of mind that can – and will – eviscerate any and all threats-‘_

“Potter, you can’t be serious.”

Harry was too exhausted to protest. He just stood there, looking at Draco almost helplessly.

“If you’d actually tried to understand Veelakind, you wouldn’t have gone looking for this text, Potter.”

“S’was in Grimmauld Place, I didn’t _look_ for it,” he protested, but his argument seemed weak to even his ears. Obviously any text prized and cherished by a Pureblood family notorious for blood purity and ties to Voldemort were to be scrutinized closely prior to reading. But Harry hadn’t any other options, besides an untranslated text from centuries prior. And he unfortunately didn’t speak Veelic Gaelic.

“Yaxleys are anti-magical creature hypocrites. Claremond, in particular, wrote _Begrimed Beasts of Magical Encounters_ out of spite when her lover was claimed by a Veela mate."

“Clearly this text is subpar to your recommendations, Malfoy. Perhaps you may be able to offer a suitable replacement?” Harry asked stiffly, voice sharp to hide his shock.

“There are none.”

It was Harry’s turn to stare agape at Draco. He looked at the Veela male, who appeared much smaller than earlier, with an expression of disbelief.

“None,” he echoed. “At all?”

“Not in a language you’d be able to understand, at any rate.” Draco said in response.

Ah, this was Draco’s way of offering a challenged. Harry squared his shoulders and replied, “Then I’ll just have to do without.” Nodding his head to Draco, Harry made to sweep out of the hallway, but caught the last whispers of a comment from behind him.

“Perhaps some hand-on experience…?”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry shot back over his shoulder, a small smile quirking at the corner of his lips. He peeked behind him as he turned the corner, and saw an equally timid grin offered in response.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :D Comments 'n kudos make my day, and I appreciate ya'll showing me how much you're enjoying (or not enjoying lol) the story so far!! I love the feedback, it keeps me thriving like caffeine.


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